


The Pros and Cons of Breathing

by agenderleadingplayer



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, i'm so so sorry tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4840850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenderleadingplayer/pseuds/agenderleadingplayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It wasn't until the third night he refused kitchen duty that they started to worry."</p>
<p>Connor is smol and needs a hug basically</p>
<p>Rated T for very (we're talking VERY) brief strong language. Moderate depictions of violence (mainly blood).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pros and Cons of Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> ok so idk when this takes place exactly? maybe some magical time directly after the end of the musical? idk it's hard to say. 
> 
> titled after the fall out boy song, particularly the lines "i hate the way you say my name/like it's something secret/my pen is the barrel of a gun/remind me which side you should be on/i want to hate you half as much/as i hate myself"

It wasn't until the third night he refused kitchen duty that they started to worry.

The first night it was fine: he'd been wringing his hands, his eyes bloodshot, cheeks burning as his mouth pulled that kind of grin you only believe is real the first time around; he'd said he was tired.

And he had very well been telling the truth, he thought to himself as he sat at the counter, resisted the urge to go back to his room; he'd calm himself down, he knew he would; he just had to try a little harder.

So the next thing they knew he was the cheerful boy they all remembered him to be, smiling down at his lap in his chair. "I'll do the dishes afterward," he said, and he did, and it was fine.

And the second night it was fine too, really, all fine; he did the dishes and asked for Kevin's (well, Elder Price's; they weren't friends, of course…keep it formal) help with the silverware, which Price washed and dried and no one suspected a thing and no one asked why he couldn't do the silverware on his own and so his hands stopped shaking as he dried the pots and all was well.

But on the third night it was different, because you can't be tired three nights in a row, and besides, they'd all seen him tapping just twenty minutes earlier; he wasn't tired.

So they looked at each other with nervous eyes that third night as he stood there, the blush starting to rise once again in his cheeks, not wanting to tell them – no, he couldn't tell them; leaders were strong and confident and most certainly didn't refuse kitchen duty just so they wouldn't have to touch the knives.

It was a stupid strategy, really. He knew he couldn't keep it up for long, he thought as the anticipatory glances made their way around to the various other Elders; one by one they turned to Kevin.

And it wasn't his responsibility, really – Kevin didn't have to do anything about it, but something about the look in his eyes (which were gorgeous, though the boy never allowed himself to think so) and the way he slowly, solemnly made his way up to the boy (he liked to believe that Elder Price called him Connor in his head; he really did. Even though, of course, the formality was an issue, and besides, he probably didn't know the boy's first name anyway, but something about Elder Price thinking that name made his stomach do flips and he didn't know which would be worse: finding out he called him Connor or finding out he called him McKinley like everyone else did) made the blush go down, if just slightly.

And Kevin's voice was soft when he asked if he'd like to go to his bedroom and lie down for a bit, and Connor nodded, of course – what else was there to do? – except he knew he wouldn't lie down, couldn't; there were so many things, dreadful, dreadful things and he didn't want to face them. But what does one do when they get murdered every night? So mostly he sat on his bed and thought.

It wasn't really the sight of the kitchen knives that set him off, but touching them – the feel of them in his hands, knowing they could draw blood, blood…blood….

That was another thing, of course: the blood, every night, in his mind. He'd fainted at the sight of it more than once in high school but stopped in the middle of junior year after the third time somebody skinned their knee on the basketball courts and he woke up to whispers of horrible, terrible names next to his cot in the nurse's office.

So now it was only that one time, really; that one time after the man had been shot (so he'd been told) when Kevin, rather, Elder Price, stormed in muttering about _The Lion King_ and, oh, gosh, oh heck, there had been blood everywhere but that wasn't even the worst part, really, because he'd put his hands on Connor's face and then he felt dizzy for a different reason and he leaned in (oh, he shouldn't have – everyone saw, he knew it; bad, bad, bad) and then it was over, and once Elder Price left the boy rushed back to his bunk and the chest heaving started and he felt cold, so cold, and he couldn't breathe, could not breathe because there was so much blood, so much, and what if it hadn't been that other man's, but Kevin's, and….

Of course, the dreams were better now. The demons were nicer; always killed him early; never made him hurt too much, even though he knew he deserved worse. It hadn't been all that bad since that night the Mission President came and told them they were as far from Mormons as anyone; that night it was bad.

It started out red, like always, and it burned, like always, and the pain was there, wounds from who-knows-what, like always, but when he sat up he clenched a fist and his hands felt different, had been caked with something. He reached up to feel his face, which felt as though the same stuff had dried on, and so he willed himself to look down, stare at the rust color that covered his hands, and he knew; he knew he'd done something unthinkable, and so he looked around the room, hoping at least the blood was his, and all of a sudden there was that feeling again and he could not breathe, was sitting on the cold ground not breathing when his eyes fell on Kevin.

(He'd told himself it's okay to call Elder Price by his first name when he's talking about the dreams. He didn't think about the fact that Kevin had been in his dreams so often that he needed that rule.)

Kevin was normally there, of course; he had been since that night after the man got shot and there was blood everywhere and from then on the demons had been killing Kevin too, rewriting the story so sometimes it was Kevin that got shot by the warlord or the devil or the skeleton, though it never really mattered who pulled the trigger because either way it was Kevin bleeding out on the floor, Connor helpless beside him.

But that night there were no screams from Kevin, just silence, and that would've been what scared Connor the most if not for the sight of him: lying there, motionless, and Connor knew, he'd known already really, didn't want to accept it until he caught sight of Elder Price and then the blood on his hands made sense and he had killed Kevin and he had killed Kevin.

And then this was a new kind of not breathing.

Because his chest heaved like he had just run a mile and the tears were coming, falling down so quick, and his lungs weren't working fast enough and the only person he wanted to be comforting him was a corpse now, less than fifteen feet away and nothing made sense but everything made sense and he was sorry, so sorry, so sorry, what had he done, he couldn't have done it, would never have done it, but he did, he did, and it didn't matter if he was tricked into it he killed Kevin and...and...and....

That was the worst he'd had of late, really.

He looked at the time now, realized he'd spent almost a half hour thinking, reliving old dreams. He didn't usually allow himself to think about the nightmares during the daytime; other District Leaders didn't have dreams where they went to Hell, so while the sun was up, neither did he.

The boy slowly made his way back to the kitchen, where the Elders where murmuring quietly as they set out plates. Their voices faded to nothing as Connor approached them; he knew they were talking about him, but it didn't really even matter, if you thought about it, didn't matter what they were saying at all because if they didn't want him to hear it why should he try and figure it out?

And then Elder Price walked up to him slowly, solemnly like before and asked in the same soft voice if he was feeling better and of course he nodded even though if he thought about it he really wasn't; he had the beginnings of the could not breathe in his chest, which was starting to tighten, and he was afraid Kevin would try and touch him because if he did he didn't know what he would do, if he would jump back or stay there, his cheeks slowly turning from freckled porcelain to deep red and again he couldn't figure out which was worse.

But it didn't matter, really, didn't matter at all.

And so they ate in silence and it was fine, even with the occasional side-eyes towards Elder Price, then Connor, then back to Price, who would shift uncomfortably in his chair and it made Connor uncomfortable when that happened, because it wasn't Price's responsibility in the first place, was it?

So by the time dinner was over and the eight of them had cleaned up (with Connor doing the dishes like always, asking Kevin to help with the silverware) most of the Elders were okay, thought it was all fine, Kevin would take care of it, now wouldn't he? Even though he really didn't have to, didn't need to, unless he wanted to, which of course he didn't, of course he didn't, there was no way....

"Are you sure you're okay?" Price's voice broke the silence and Connor looked around; the others seemed to have gone, maybe figured it was best to let them alone, maybe suspected. Or maybe they didn't, maybe they were sitting outside in the cool night air talking, laughing, not worrying about Connor or who would take care of him.

Connor wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to say; no one he'd known had ever answered that question with a no, even if they probably should have, like Connor now.

So he didn't really nod but at the same time he didn't really shake his head no either, made a vague gesture that seemed to suggest that sure, he was okay, if you didn't think about it too much.

But of course Price decided to think about it too much and tilted his head to the side like a curious puppy dog, his eyes wide with worry. "Please...tell me what's wrong," he said, didn't even stop to ask if Connor was telling the truth or not, skipped over that part, somehow knew the boy wasn't okay, which made the boy even more not okay; he'd always thought he'd been good at hiding it, hadn't he? So now ~~Kevin~~ Elder Price was standing there, his hands submerged in soapy water washing the forks, wondering what was wrong, knowing something was wrong, but Connor couldn't very well talk about it, not now, not here....

But, oh, how he wanted to.

How he wished for Kevin to just stand there, nodding his head as he told the familiar story of his nighttime demons, Kevin, just sitting and listening, making sure Connor knew he cared, knew how much he cared....

Not that he did, not that he would. There was a time and a place and a person for everything, and he knew Elder Price didn't fit that bill, was just curious, wasn't he, how could he care for someone as troubled as him, didn't care, didn't care, would never care....

And so he shook his head as he focused on moving the sponge in perfect circles around the bowl he'd been washing; "There's nothing wrong," he said, his mouth contorting into an all-teeth smile, and Kevin looked down at his hands and blinked and they finished the dishes in silence and it was fine.

Eventually the other Elders came back in, acted like nothing was wrong (although, for all he knew, perhaps they really didn't think anything was wrong), chatted amicably amongst themselves, trying their best to include Connor in the conversation, like always (which, again, they really didn't have to do); at one point one of the others – he was fairly certain it had been Church – pulled out a deck of cards and they played games like gin rummy and hearts and B.S. (the latter of which everyone except Elder Price called "You're a Liar") until the clock struck eleven and the boys retreated to their bunks.

Chris walked with Connor back to their room, which looked just like everyone else's: two twin beds separated by a tiny nightstand; none of the rooms housed much else. And then it was Poptarts's turn to ask Connor how he was feeling, if he was okay, to which Connor replied of course he was, why wouldn't he be, and he phrased it like a question but Elder Thomas didn't answer and just kind of shook his head as he opened the door to the bedroom, and Connor would've said something more but Chris seemed tired and of course he didn't want to push it so he sat at the edge of his bed, playing with the thin red blanket as Poptarts got under the covers.

"You gonna go to bed?" Chris asked, his hand on the switch of the lamp on the table; he pulled the cord and the room was dark, so he couldn't see the boy subtly shake his head (probably for the best, he thought). Instead the boy offered a soft "maybe", which seemed to be sufficient to Chris as he rolled over, and within five minutes his breathing evened out and Connor was alone.

A familiar feeling started to seep its way into the boy's lungs; it always started like this, really – the minute the room was dark he knew he would have to sleep but at the same time knew he wouldn't, couldn't, there were so many things, horrible, horrible things waiting for him when he closed his eyes...

And he told himself this every night, that he couldn't sleep, was not allowed to sleep, and sometimes it worked: some days he would sit on his bed, rocking back and forth until the sun seeped through the crack under the door, but other nights he'd just be so tired, so, so tired, and he knew what was coming but the allure of sleep was a much more welcome promise than the knowledge of what was coming for him on the other side and so he slept.

And every night he worried which type of night it would be.

Because either he'd be tired in the morning, all bloodshot eyes and all-nighter breath and not-falling-asleep-at-the-provided-missionary-bedtime guilt, and other mornings it would be worse: he'd flinch at even soft movements, still preparing himself for the pain even though he was fully conscious, not knowing if he was still in Hell or not, not brave enough to ask, because really, what would the others think of that?

And so that night he hugged his knees to his chest, trying to make it as long as he could before the pull of sleep and the heaviness of his eyelids was too much to resist; he'd stopped counting the hours of sleep he got each night a long time ago; the single digits (oftentimes below five) filled him with shame; the clock was turned towards Chris's side of the room now.

The boy laid back on his pillow after a long while, trying to relish in those few minutes before sleep where he let himself think whatever he wanted; his mind settled on Kevin, as it so often did lately.

He didn't really know when he first realized how beautiful he was (not that he ever had, not that he did...well, denying it was useless now, wasn't it; he was minutes away from Hell anyway), but it must have just been that the boy had looked at him for the first time, really looked, and saw that he wasn't all ego and coffee and Orlando but actually a person, real, so, so real, just helping the boy with dishes, asking if he was okay....

It seemed so...normal, when you thought about it, really.

And yet here he was, nearly crying into his pillow, his stomach doing little flips and there it was again, could not breathe because Kevin, oh, gosh, Kevin...Kevin....

Red. Hot. Pain. The demons were back now, pitchforks and torches abound; they looked like a good old-fashioned mob, and Connor was the witch they were looking to burn at the stake; they seemed to have already cornered him when the boy felt a hand on his back and Kevin was there, alive, fine, all fine, really, it didn't matter as long as Kevin was alive and he was, and he was touching Connor, just a hand on his back, but he was there, real....

That was when Price started laughing.

His laughter echoed in the chamber of wherever it was they were, silencing the mob if only for a second, as Kevin backed up to join them; a pitchfork appeared in his hand as he sneered, pointed at the blush on the boy's cheeks.

"Silly, silly Connor," Price said (this was not how the boy imagined Kevin to say his name, not like this at all; in the boy's mind it was soft and sweet and now, here, it was a smirk, a slur...) "Thinking I cared for you. Thinking I liked you. How naive!" And there was a voice in Connor's head, faint, coming to him as if he was underwater, telling him it was fake, all fake, a trick of the subconscious, but he didn't know who to believe anymore because Kevin had helped him with the dishes, hadn't he; known about the knives, right? It was real, had to be, couldn't be fake, couldn't be, but Kevin was right in front of him shaking his head in a way much like the Mission President that night, and he wanted out of this so bad, never had wanted out of anything this much except maybe that one night with the blood, the first night ever that the pain wasn't his but had felt like it, felt like his as he looked down at his white hands stained rust, thought about death and killing and Kevin, oh, heck, Kevin....

Sneering, smirking...he had a torch now, was not on his side, never was, always hated him, hadn't he, and the underwater voice was gone now, replaced by a stronger one whispering mean things, terrible things, into his ear; no one loves you Connor, Kevin doesn't want you Connor, a burden, better off dead, aren't you, better off dead.

And so he curled into a ball in the dirt, rocked back and forth, could not breathe, could not breathe, and the names didn't stop, couldn't stop, would never stop, and Price shouting his name over and over, Connor, Connor, Connor....

"Connor!"

The boy snapped awake, nearly hitting his head on the headboard in the process; standing above him was Elder Price.

"Connor, are you –"

"I'm fine," Connor said cheerily, then, "What time is it?"

Price looked at the clock. "Almost ten in the morning. You've been asleep for a long time."

The boy tried to nod in a way that showed he was interested, mulling over things, then wondered why Elder Price was there in the first place. "You can leave if you want," Connor finally decided on saying.

Price looked surprised, slightly hurt. "Why would I..." And then Price's hands were inching towards him – no, not inching, coming at him so fast, too fast, and so Connor put his hands in front of his face, braced himself for the impact he knew was coming; "Don't hurt me," he whispered. "Please."

And all of a sudden Price dropped his hands (the boy did as well, though slightly more cautiously) and Connor could see the sad puppy look again, Price's brown eyes growing too big for his face in an almost endearing way. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to..." Kevin moved his hand slowly and placed it on the boy's forearm. "Is this okay?" he asked, and the boy nodded.

It was in this moment Connor let himself think, if only for a few seconds, about Kevin.

Him, waking up next to Kevin in the morning....

Him, touching Kevin without feeling like he was robbing him of something....

Him, kissing Kevin, the feel of his lips soft on his....

(Too much, too much, the boy reminded himself; you've gone too far, and besides, it's no use thinking about things that will never happen, he doesn't feel the same way, how dare you entertain the notion that he cares for you.)

"...Connor?" (So apparently Kevin did know his name; the boy didn't know how, maybe Chris told him. Either way, he said it soft, like it was a secret. He hated it; it made him think about waking up to it.)

"Where's Elder Thomas?" Connor could think of nothing else to respond.

"He's already working. I think he's at daycare with Naba. He knew you'd had trouble sleeping in the past and wanted to let you sleep in."

"Oh." Then why was... "Why are you here then?"

Kevin moved his hand down and linked it with Connor's, making the boy's stomach somersault and his lungs seemed to have been filled with water because he was taking deep, shuddering breaths and Kevin was holding his hand and Kevin was holding his hand....

"I heard shouting...coming from your room. I...I really wanted to make sure you were okay."

Connor raised his eyebrows, confused; Kevin would never say that, could never say that, doesn't care, doesn't care....

"Are you?"

Connor was snapped from his thoughts. "Am I...what?"

"Okay. Are you okay?" And there it was again, Kevin acting like he cared, rubbing it so deep in Connor's face and why couldn't he just leave him alone, let go of his hand because the boy was getting so attached, so, so attached and he was afraid that if Kevin let him go it would feel like a bandage being ripped off but, really, it would be better if he just left him now and never came back rather than having Connor see him every day, dying a little bit more every time the sun came up over the horizon....

"Um...no?" Connor said, then laughed; he didn't want Kevin to be worried, it wasn't his job to take care of the boy anyway. "I mean, what can I say? Hell's a pretty gruesome place, am I right?"

Apparently this was the wrong thing to say because Kevin was not laughing and bad Connor, bad, bad, bad....

Kevin took his hand off the boy's arm, and for a second Connor thought he was going to leave, walk away, never talk to him again, but then all of a sudden Kevin's hand was on his face (on his face, on his face; he didn't know what to think, this wasn't real, couldn't be, this isn't happening don't get attached Connor, bad, Connor...) and he stroked his cheek with his thumb and asked very softly, "Is this okay? Is this comfortable?" And Connor nodded because yes, it was, this felt like sunlight, like driving through New York at night, like tap recitals and _Into The Woods_ blaring where no one could judge him.

And then Kevin kissed him, slow and soft and oh, oh heck, oh.....oh, _fuck_ , this was the deserted island with Steve, this was that one time he met Sutton Foster at a Starbucks in Manhattan and had to hide in the bathrooms while he worked up the courage to talk to her, this was terrible, terrible, sin, sin, sin, but it really didn't matter, did it, because this felt good enough to make the dreams disappear, good enough to make everything worth it and Uganda was beautiful for the first time and....

"Wow," Connor whispered after Kevin pulled back far too soon (he really hadn't meant for him to hear it, but he did anyway and when he did he cracked a small bashful smile and wow again, wow a billion and one times, really, this was not real, could not be, but it was, it was, it was real, and how, he didn't know, but somehow it was and it was perfect, really, so, so perfect and he didn't know what to think, didn't know how to think....)

If you were to ask the boy what happened after that, he wouldn't be able to tell you. He would be able to tell you how he felt the first night he woke up in Kevin's arms, the first night in nine years he'd dreamt of anything but demons and skeletons. He would be able to tell you how he felt that night the two of them drove through New York City, Disney songs blaring from the stereo, staying in cruddy motel rooms and kissing for hours on beds that may or may not have been infested with bugs; who could tell with a seventy-dollars-a-night room.

He would be able to tell you how he felt the day Kevin proposed, on the giant rocks in Central Park when they finally up and moved there, the lights of Fifth Avenue reflecting off the pond; there was no one else around for miles (or at least that's what it felt like, he will tell you; the city must have been as busy as ever at ten at night in the heart of Manhattan).

And he would be able to be tell you how it felt on their wedding day, matching suits and all, as all their friends from Uganda gathered around with tears in their eyes as they exchanged their vows, Connor's scrawled in cursive, Kevin's typed up in a word document. He would tell you how his eyes filled with tears and he was almost unable to say "I do," he was crying so much; he would tell you that they danced longer than they probably should have, hogged the floor for a good three songs, but it didn't matter really, didn't matter at all, because everyone at their tables was smiling or crying, and since it was a wedding both meant that they would all gladly give up the floor for a while.

And of course he would be able to tell you about their first anniversary, snuggled up together on their couch watching some movie in their matchbox apartment, Kevin clutching a mug of coffee like always, when Connor reached for a small yellow envelope.

Inside was the usual inscription of how much Kevin was loved, how he still couldn't believe he got to wake up next to him every day. But at the very bottom, in a post script, in all capital letters, the boy had written something, mostly a note for his husband, partially, still, as a reminder to himself:

" _NEVER TURN IT OFF!!!_ "

**Author's Note:**

> haha wow that was a ride...um yeah some of you might know that that last line was actually something rory o'malley tweeted at one point....yeah! ok that's it thanks for reading!!!


End file.
